


Real

by Sangfroid_Sorrow



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, It's a form of 'coping', Kinda fluff, Kinda misery, M/M, Memory Loss, Nightmares, Post-Canon, They Support Each Other Simple As, They're Also Very Traumatised, They're Living Together Now, Trauma, Well not really, maybe au, unspoken feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 09:16:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10964253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sangfroid_Sorrow/pseuds/Sangfroid_Sorrow
Summary: Waylon's relationship with Miles Upshur is unusual. There are times when it feels more like a mourner paying his respects than a man just trying to support his friend.





	Real

Waylon can’t remember the first time he met Miles Upshur.

 

The feeling that he _should_ remember persists, but in the long-run does him no good. The memory is lost. Sometimes, when he turns to glance at the unsuspecting man, he thinks this is probably for the best.

 

There’s a darkness in Miles’ eyes that could swallow you whole.

 

It’s only on certain nights, and they are few and far between, that Waylon can truly empathise. His roommate tosses and turns from the room beside his with such fever that the sound carries through the walls. Nightmares mean thrashing and screaming and choking. Nightmares mean waking up, sweating, and thinking that it’s blood.

 

Nightmares mean remembering, and this is the association that keeps Waylon from asking questions.

 

Sometimes, on nights like these, Waylon creeps from his own room and into Miles’. He never knocks on the door, but it’s force of habit to open it like one loud sonuvabitch. Miles used to start forward, leaping about a foot and swearing like a sailor at the disturbance. Now he lies still.

 

Waylon once took for granted that fright—that sense of self-preservation that Miles exhibited with so much _life_. Maybe it’s cruel, but he wishes the man would show fear again. It was a sign that he was still alive.

 

He approaches the bed as he always does: with the caution of a doctor before his patient. It’s perhaps a biased comparison. He knows Miles would equally consider himself to be Waylon’s ‘help’, but such arrogance is mirrored in turn. It’s selfish, but Waylon likes to think that Miles relies on him too.

 

Stooping by the bedside, he checks to see if his friend is awake. He is. Of course he is.

 

“The fuck are you doing in here, Park?” Miles rasps, not opening his eyes. His hand is sloped over his chest in a mockery of an attempt to feel his heart beat. This is another thing Waylon doesn’t question.

 

His ‘friend’ is undoubtedly dead.

 

Quietly, Waylon mutters his usual response. “I had another nightmare. Thought I’d remind myself that I’m—that _we’re_ – out,” he gives the oblivious man a pointed smile. He doesn’t have nightmares though. Not like Miles does. (The smile wobbles, but it always does.)

 

Miles smiles back, if only a little. His bare shoulders are still shaking. “Dammit Way,” he says almost fondly, and this is the part where he should tell Waylon to go and try to get some rest, but instead he carries on smoothly—“Maybe you should stay here, tonight?”

 

Waylon blinks. There’s a moment of silence. “With you?” he asks finally.

 

Miles’ grin falters a little, but he laughs. His eyes are open now and Waylon thinks they look awfully… the word 'sad' comes to mind, but it's too simple. Perhaps not sad but something else; something worse. Empty, maybe. “Yes, you asshole, with me.”

 

“Okay.”

 

He forgets to move for a moment, lost in thought beside the bed. If the situation was different he may have considered the fact that Miles’ isn't exactly in the most appropriate state of dress, and that, honestly, Waylon isn't either. Or how Miles sleeps with the blinds pulled tight whereas Waylon _needs_ them open-- the darkness only serves to remind him of that in the lockers, which brought no comfort after Eddie. Then he would have wondered whether this really was 'okay' because his entire future is defined as 'after Eddie'. He's not sure he's ready for this kind of closeness, emotional or literal.

 

But maybe, forgetting those distractions, he could have kissed the man.

 

He doesn’t. Rather, he opts to awkwardly pull himself together and loops around to the other side of the bed. He slips under the covers, laying straight and unobtrusively. Miles has already closed his eyes.

 

It shouldn't feel like a missed opportunity. 

 

Waylon listens to his own breathing, loud against the stillness of the room. Minutes pass. He should be feeling some level of temptation, or in the very least _embarrassment_ at his proximity to the attractive man. But instead he feels nothing. It’s like he’s totally alone.

 

It’s like he’s laying by a corpse.

 

Waylon twists away to face the wall. There's something in his chest, stretching and yearning, and this movement is its anaesthesia. He tells himself that it’s to give Miles space. To be respectful.

 

But it's more selfish than that. He just can't bear to look at the dark tendrils pooling forth from the other side of the bed. Waylon isn't sure whether they, or even _Miles_ , are real.

 

The hallucinations have gotten bad again.

**Author's Note:**

> (I wrote this with no clear direction and that's probably obvious... thank you for reading it, anyways.)


End file.
